


Two Points

by acornsandarrows



Category: The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Ancient Greece, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Alternate Universe - World War I, M/M, alternate universe - the 60's
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-22
Updated: 2014-12-22
Packaged: 2018-03-02 19:14:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2823044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acornsandarrows/pseuds/acornsandarrows
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two points: destined to collide, connect, then depart from one another, never to meet again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two Points

**Author's Note:**

> edited by krab master tac  
> this is a newtmas fic but their names change throughout the fic. It's told through Thomas' eyes.

         i.             

You look down upon the earth from way up above. You sit with your sister on clouds supported by centuries of human ideologies and prayers.

“I must leave, brother,” she says. You knew she would say that. You watch as she stands. “Stay out of trouble, now.”

“You worry too much, Artemis.”

She looks over her shoulder at you, dark hair falling over her white gown, and she smiles like she knows what you plan on doing. Then she’s gone, and the darkening sky is lit with the soft glow of the moon.

You lower yourself onto the earth. You feel the cool grass under your feet and relish it as always as you walk to the dusty road. The tower stands tall and smooth. You rise to the slitted window and step through it like it is nothing. The tower was not meant to keep out Gods.

He looks up as you enter. He raises an eyebrow, then looks back down at the mass of golden-red feathers on his lap.

“Ho, Icarus.”

“Ho, Apollo,” he says with a smirk. You grin.

“How’re the wings?”

“Almost finished. Father says we can leave soon.” You see the fervour in his eyes, the determination in his grip, and you nod.

“It’s about time. How long have you been here, now?”

“Two years. Two years too many,” he says bitterly.

“You will be free soon,” you say softly. Then you looks around. “What’s this?” You raise an eyebrow in mock horror. “Where is the devout worship I deserve?”

He laughs.

“My bloody apologies.” He stands and carefully places the unfinished wing on a side table. Then he reaches forward, taking hold of your tunic, and pulls you closer. “Consider these kisses prayers.”

You lean forward. His lips seem cool as always. You are aware of how your skin burns mortals, so you makes sure to lessen the heat radiating from yourself.

“How long ‘till your father returns from Minos’ quarters?”

“He’ll be gone until the sun bloody rises.”

“Plenty of time for you to plunder my temple.”

He pushes you away, laughing. 

//

If you are worshipped as the god of the sun, then he is that which you worship. His hair is soft under your gentle fingers, looking like the solidified rays of that which you work so hard to maintain.

He laughs quietly, and you want to throw open the door and shout to the people: Y _ou see this boy? You see his smile? Worship this._

Instead you grasps his hand and drag your fingers through the spaces in between.

You enter the window once more and he rushes to you.

“We’re bloody leaving!” he says. His happiness is blinding. “Father finished the wings. He should be back soon.”

You glance at the wings. They are beautiful, glowing warmly in the sunlight.

“Your father is a genius,” you say quietly, brushing them lightly with your fingertips. “They’re better than even I imagined. Tell him I said that?”

He nods. “You’d better leave. The next time we meet, I’ll be free!”

You kiss him deeply and then vanish. You watch from above as he passes on the message to Daedalus, who smiles his thanks.

“Remember, my son: do not fly too close to the sun, or the wax will melt. Do not fly too close to the water, or the straps will fall apart.”

“I know, father,” he says.

They push from the window, springing into the open air. You can see him, his limbs spread out against the sky. He swoops up, gliding close to the sun, and you clutch your hands into fists as you see the wax begin to glisten. He darts low, and for a second you relax until you realise the straps are weakening in the spray of the water.

“Icarus!” Daedalus shouts as his shining son falls down into the sea.

You close your eyes numbly and mourn the death of your sun.           

 

       ii.             

“Think of me as your knight,” he says, smiling, and you laugh.

“And think of me as yours, my lord,” you say mockingly, lowering yourself down onto one knee. He shakes his head, then looks back over the gloomy moor and sighs.

“I wish the battle might bloody begin already, so as to be nearer the close of it.”

“It’s quite peaceful out there, strange enough. With the stars overhead, a slight breeze. But tomorrow no longer.”

 “Get some rest, Sam. I made a buggin’ solemn promise to protect you, and I can’t do that if you are staggering around, drunk on lack of sleep.”

“Oh?” You raise an eyebrow, slumping down onto the chilled ground. “And to whom did you promise such a thing?”

He smiles.

“You need rest too, you know. I also have a promise to uphold.”

//

The day of the battle dawns crisp and expectant. You press a kiss on his knuckles before sliding on leather gloves and a heavy metal gauntlet on his hand.

“Stay close,” you murmur, and he nods. The cry goes out, and together you run into the battle on electrified legs.

On the battlefield, it is a sea of sparks, blood splatters and cries of all variations. Some defiant, some grief-stricken and some the inhuman yells of the dying. You keep him in your view at all times, plunging your sword into the people swarming around you with the detachment you taught yourself.

A detachment that does nothing to curb the horror you feel crawl up your throat at the sight of him throwing himself in front of you. Nothing to curb the disbelief that numbs your limbs as bright, jewel red blood strings itself around his neck in a deadly necklace.

You fall to his side, fumbling for one of his hands. You press it against your cheek.

“Wake up,” you whisper, “wake up, my knight. If you have sworn to protect me, do so in the only way that matters and stay by my side.”

He does not stir.

  

    iii.             

The air is filled with the smell of smoke and the sound of people yelling. You lie flat on your stomach and crawl through the mud, your own panting breaths filling your head. Your only thought is survival. There’s an explosion to your right, someone shouts out frantically

“Grenade!”

You glance around to see someone racing past you, throwing themselves on top of the grenade. You don’t see their face until three months later, when the war is over and his picture is displayed among others who would have received commendations for their services. Others who didn’t make it.

You feel an incredible sadness, but you’re not sure why.                               

   

  iv.             

It’s your first day in a new city. You walk into the Glade Bar and there he is. It’s the 60’s; everyone around you is either high or… well everyone’s high.        

He’s sitting in a cloud of smoke. He looks the most relaxed you’ve ever seen him (you think). He’s smiling, and in the mist he looks like whatever everyone in the Renaissance was talking about. It’s like the moment Leonardo DaVinci saw Mona Lisa and decided he wanted to paint her, to somehow capture her essence so that she would last forever.

He brushes past you when he walks to the counter, and you want him to last forever. You down your drink and sigh, rubbing your hands together in the strange, cold, grey-tinted air. 

Someone laughs.

You look up, and see him smiling down at you.

“Alright?” he says.

“Fucking freezing.”

“Squish up, then. Let’s see if we can’t generate some bloody body heat.”

“You trying to get me into your bed?” you ask, and he laughs again. White teeth, red mouth, he smells like butter and frost.

“This your first day in the city?”

“How could you tell?” you mutter.

You do end up going back to his apartment, and later his bed. You lie in the early hours of the morning with his head under your chin, his hair soft against your cheek, and you think _this is something I want to remember forever._

That morning you make him breakfast, you share a parting kiss and

You never see him again.

   

    v.             

In the early morning light, you press kisses up the length of his forearm, working your way to the neck, then the cheek, lips, eyelids. He is smiling, his eyes are closed. The sun trickles through the window, illuminating hair rough with sleep, and limbs strewn across your bed.

Finally you come to a halt, your faces inches apart, cool skin on cool skin, and you drink him in as you know you can only once more.

“It’s not goodbye forever,” he says, like he knows exactly what you’re thinking.

“I know. But it is, in a way. I mean when I see you next, I’ll be Thomas and you’ll be Newt. Like two people meeting in a different life or something.”

“Such a ray of bloody sunshine, _Tommy._ ”

You roll your eyes, and somewhere in the distance an electrical bell tolls. You feel him tense against you and you carefully trace lines down his back.

“It’ll be fine. I’ll walk down with you. I’m not leaving your side.”

“Do we have to go down right away?” he asks quietly, and he suddenly seems very young. You want to assure him that no, take your time, or even better don’t do it. Instead you gently press your foreheads together and say nothing. A moment more, and he drags himself out of the bed, pulling on the clothes you collected the previous day. The clothes he would be wearing as he entered the Glade.

The luminescent corridors seem ominous in a way you hadn’t admitted to yourself yet as you walk down to the lab with him. Your hands are not intertwined, and you can feel the space between you.

“Ah, subject a5. Right on time.”

Two white-clad people steer him away to a table far from the door of the lab, and lie him down. You watch as tiny probes enter his mind through his ears and begin to strip away memories of his life. Memories of you. 

A death of sorts.

 

     vi.             

“Please, Tommy. Please.”    

 


End file.
